Ladies, I know you’ve all been there. Dudes, I know some of you have been there too (not that I am totally ok with that). Today, after a month-long hi ate us from the blog of sphere, Talvid attempts to broach the very sensitive, and I mean more than just the tip, the shaft, or the balls, subject of blow jobs. I know what you’re thinking, this isn’t the forum to be discussing such things. After all, we’re not experts when it comes to the matter at hand. If we were, you’d think we were some kinda pansy who spends all his time in the kitchen wearing a ‘kiss the chef’ apron. Anyhoo, enough dye guessing. Here is Talvid’s version of the proper blow job technique. Don’t Judge.

Talvid is fuggin’ furious. I’m more mad even than the time I was in a menage with two A-List Hollywood actorettes, who I won’t name because I’m a gentleman, and one of them, a topless Jessica Alba, made eye-contact with the other, an equally topless Jessica Biel, after I explicitly told them not to.

Where was I? Oh yeah, in a hotel room. Where the eff else do you think I’d have my own personal topless nude sex scene with A-List Hollywood actresses who I won’t name? (Jessica Biel and Jessica Alba).

But the thing I’m fuming about right now is Justin Bieber. Talvid’s team of web analysts has learned that this very blog, TaDBoS (pronounced ‘Tadboss’) has been drawing traffic from Justin Bieber fans. Why? Because teenage girls have crazy good radars for sexy shit that makes them understand that their burgeoning womanhood is not something to be afraid of and that the weird warm feeling they get in their special private place isn’t a bad thing. (Also because Talvid reviewed My World 2.0)

There might — MIGHT — be things in the world that approach Talvid’s spontaneous “O”-inciting hotness, but for Justin Bieber to ride our Gucci-brand coattails to web fame and fortune is bushleague (and I’m not talking Pac-10 softball). I’m so mad that it’s hard to concentrate on whether or not my driver is maxing out my Murcielago’s performance right now. (I’m posting from my wire-fire equipped hobby car).

So this is an open warning, Bieber. Either give Talvid a thousand dollars or stop sending hormone-addled teens with Augusta National-approved putting green pubes to TaDBoS.

You have a good life. I assume you want to keep it that way. (I know — “assume” makes an ass out of you and me. But brother, I got all the ass I need.)

Lately, to be more exact, always, people have been coming up to me (Talvid) on the streets of Toronto and New York to waste my time with their less than Talvidian witticisms. What they generally try to eke out in some disjointed, ESL manner is, “I love your blog, it’s great.” Of course I’m paraphrasing. It’s never nearly as eloquently put as that. No offense, fans. It’s just like, you see when I’m not talking to someone who’s on Talvid’s level, or, on a side note, getting eye-diddled by some gorg’ super model, I feel a tad underwhelmsy. I know this is probably coming across as conceited or arrogant, but I can assure you that Talvid is anything but. The truth is, we’re a human being. Fallible just like the rest of you. The only difference is that when Talvid is fucking up, it appears as exactly the opposite. For example, this one time I was caught cheating on a test in Uni. (Harvard, Yale or somesuch). What’d Prof do? He high-fived me, wrote me a blank check, thanked me for servicing his wife the night before, failed the student I’d been cheating off, and, of course, gave me an A+. Look, I gotta run. The president of Canada’s waiting to chit-chat. My secretary’s saying it’s something about a Nobel peace prize for literature in regards to my blog?
Whatevs, Obama, whatevs.

I don’t know much about soccer, but I’m basically an expert. 100 yards, two goals, something like 20 players on the field at a time — this isn’t exactly rocking science. So anyone who says they know more than me about soccer is just blowing smoke up your ass. (And not in the good, I-just-paid-a-hobo-20-dollars-to-do-that kind of way.)

So after literally minutes of research, here’s the ultimate guide to the favorites at the South Africa 2010 World Cup.

Brazil: Back when I was only bagging mediocre trim, I used to live on a block with these two Brazilian kids. One was fat and the other had a speech impediment. On the plus side, they showed me my first Playboy and their mom used to walk around the house wearing a nightgown that didn’t cover her privates. Oddly enough, her boosh was a veritable Amazonian rain forest. Ten years before I knew what the term meant, I expected her to have a Brazilian. These are just some of the factors why, at the end of the day, the Selecao are one of my top picks to compete in 2010 World Cup.

England: Holy shitballs is soccer corrupt. The captain of England’s footie team is this fugmo named Rio Ferdinand. I’m not making this up. Needless to say, when Ferdinand suffered an injury just before the tournament was due to start, I wasn’t surprised. Why not? Rio. Rio. Rio de Janeiro is the fugging capital of Brazil! This dude was a reverse ringer. Also working against England is the general ugliness of their people aside from Kate Beckinsale, who I’d rock like a sexual hurricane, 1994-era Elizabeth Hurley, and Susan Boyle, who I’d throw a pity bone. At best, I can only see England winning the tournament.

Italy: Clearly the most dominant team in FIFA 94 for Sega Genesis, the Italians are poised to repeat their 2006 championship run. Key to the attack will be my ability to set the difficulty level to “Easy” before beginning play. If the Azzuri get off to their usual slow start, look for me to hit reset.

Spain: The Spaniards are notorious chokers at the highest levels of international football. But if Pau Gasol can hold his own in the post and create scoring opportunities for Kobe Bryant with his offensive rebounding, Spain has a chance to either advance deep into the tourney or go home early. And speaking of Spanish scoring opportunities — imagine what it’d be like to pussy poke Penelope Cruz. Probably pretty sweet, right?

Holland: I was in Holland once. I saw a sex show where a guy who was obviously gay boned a haggard looking lady in front of seven paying customers. Then I ate a bag of magical mushrooms and some pizza with pieces of tandoori chicken on it. If the team can replicate that mix of confusion and excitement on the pitch — and overcome my experience working for a week at a shitty ice cream parlor owned by Dutch miser who gave me a hard time about using my tongue to scoop the ice cream into the customer’s cones — they’re strong candidates to play at least three opening round games.

Argentina: The Argentines are flying high on their recent Oscar win for Best Foreign Film for “The Secrets In Their Eyes.” Can they ride that wave to a third world championship? How the fuck should I know?

Germany: As holocaust deniers well know, Germany has never been involved in anything bad. Expect that trend to continue in South Africa, with the Germans relying on their collective cultural guilt to advance into the ironically named sudden death stages, where their cold-blooded efficiency will lead observers to wonder how the same country that produced Goethe, Martin Luther, the Scorpions, pretzels, and Dirk Nowitzki could also be responsible for such overrated beer.

A friend of mine, we’ll call him Bodies42099, has shed some very interesting light on the whole Tiger Woods sex scandal. Why no one else has said this is, simply put, beyond me.

“tiger woods = greatest golfer on the planet and who cares﻿ what he does off the course i dont it is his right to privacy so dont judge because your jealous you have a fat cow at home while tiger gets the sweet poon” (sic)(as in, fuggin sick thought, Bro Namath.)

Now you go right ahead and keep yer damn pants on, guy. There are no, I repeat no naked pictures here of the one they call “Bieber”. However, due to the smash success of Il Biebelino’s latest musical recording, Talvid’s Blog of Shit is getting a shit ton of hits. My guess is, in fact I know, that Bieber-sexuals are feverishly googling the Biebs and accidentally stumbling upon T&DBOS. And we noticed that lately, well, the numbers were sliding a bit. Maybe it’s because the posts have been sucking (impossible), or the popularity of Bielseebub’s 2.0 has been waning (I hope so). What I do know is that you, sick perverted bastard, looked up “Justin Bieber Naked” and happened upon the greatest blog in the history of boykind. And that’s twofold. One, you’ve got loads of awesome shit to read for the next little while. Two, you’re going to jail for the next little while because you looked up naked pictures of a little boy. Shame on you, Pete O’Pheal.

So every afternoon ’round about 4 in the P.M., I get a fuggin’ serious coffee jones on account of spending a whole day masterminding shit and IM’ing with friends and taking coffee breaks. There’s this one place I like to go get my fix. They have all the finest aged java micro-brews and sweetener packets you’ll ever need. But on top of that, there’s this one barista who I like to mindbang. This isn’t some meaningless hot sex ogling either — I can tell from how she wears sweaters that show off the space between her tatties that she and I would get along on a real deeplike level. Romio, oh, Romio. Wherefore art thou? Right here baby, ordering a non-fat, no-foam sugar and spice latte with two Equals.

Anyway, in the hundred or so times I’ve ordered coffee from this girl, she ain’t so much as winked and made a beejer motion at ol’ Uncle Talvid . . . until today.

I do my usual stripper two-step up the counter to place my order. I notice my Barista beloved is batting her baby blues at me. She opens her mouth to speak:
Her: “I like your t-shirt. Who is that?”
Me: “Uuuhhh. Uh, hisnameishtoddrundgren.”
Her: “Sorry, Tad Runcheon?”
Me: “Todd Rundgren.”
Her: “It’s cool. I wouldn’t have thought to wear it with a cardigan, but I like it.”

According to The Pickup Artist (AKA Mystery, AKA Erik von Markovik, AKA A douche who looks like an idiot), a “guy” who pretends to know about dating and all things getting laid, the act of ‘peacocking’ involves “using a man’s clothing and adapting his behavior in an over the top and flashy manner, for the purpose of attracting women — but not necessarily a mate”.

Hmmm….Interesting theory indeed, but what I witnessed with my own two breast oglers pretty much disproves his idiotic notion. So, Mystery from the Pickup Artist, sure your show was wildly entertaining, extremely helpful (I did finally get laid- by a hooker, no less), and was a ratings juggerhead, but I’m here to say that the act of peacocking is downright dangerous.

Now maybe I’m being too literal about all this, but yesterday I was at the Zoo. That’s not the literal part, so calm the shit down. And at this zoo, the peacocks are allowed to roam freely and basically do as they please. I even saw this one peacock having its way with a cougar. As in, feeling up a human mom well into her 40s with tits like a Nicaraguan orangutan. Anyway, I guess the peacocks at the zoo have become, well, a bit cocky. Somehow, one of the more bold ‘cocks with feathers longer than John Holmes’s dick in length, found its way into a cage with some sweet Sumatran puss. I’ll spare you the gory details.

The moral of the story? No matter how pretty your fancy fathers are, tigers will straight up eat you.
To death.

For reference, here’s a picture of a rhinoceros whose farts you could literally see.

First off, let Talvid feign an apology for not posting in awhile. We’ve been pretty busy doing things people like you (no offence, but seriously) could never fathom. Imagine getting beejers mixed with skydiving mixed with winning an oscar mixed with buffalo chicken caesar wraps mixed winning the Powerball mixed with beejers once more. Thats what we’ve been doing-ish. Anyway, superfan, we’re still really busy doing shit like that (why would you ever stop, seriously?), so Talvid’s gonna post a bunch of short videos for you to watch instead of wasting his time being your monkey. All of them are primo, and if you beg to differ, your opinion aint valid. Gee-eff-why. Not you mom, you’re alright. JK-especially you.